


Kings Don’t Kneel

by Mrs King of Hell (Slytherkins)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Mrs%20King%20of%20Hell
Summary: Dean has sacrificed himself to defeat Amara (as far as Crowley knows), and Crowley has moved on. But then he receives some unsettling news.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Kings Don’t Kneel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impala_Dreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Dreamer/gifts).



> Written for @impala-dreamer‘s [Make Me Feel It challenge](https://impala-dreamer.tumblr.com/post/190422651335/impala-dreamers-make-me-feel-it-challenge). Song prompt was [Uninvited ](https://youtu.be/uvgi7P97lu0)by Alanis Morissette. Set right after the season 11 finale.

“Dean Winchester,” Crowley intoned, his voice heavy with warning, “is dead.” 

He resented being made to speak the words aloud. Crowley had seen the sun rally and regain its shine, which could only mean one thing...one thing he had not allowed himself to think on again since, and forcing him to was a dangerous endeavor. 

The demon reporting to him gulped but persisted in his contradiction, though his voice wavered, “Respectfully, sir...I saw him with my own two-”

He was silenced by the angel blade that materialized from Crowley’s sleeve. His courage had been admirable, but Crowley refused to hear the words spoken a second time. 

“Get out,” Crowley told the rest of the assembled as the poor sod’s empty meatsuit slipped off Crowley’s blade and onto the floor of the throne room. They obeyed, those that could blinking away rather than scrambling through the door with the others. It was fortunate for them that they did. If they’d lingered even half a moment more, Crowley would have disintegrated them. He would have had to. 

No one could see him like this.

By some miracle, the bloodied weapon didn’t fall from Crowley’s hand until after his minions had fled, but once it did, one of the king’s knees followed it to the ground. He still hadn’t taken a breath, though. He couldn’t; and Crowley had a fleeting fear that he might suffocate before he remembered that demons do not, in fact, require respiration.

It wasn’t anger that had dropped Crowley to his knees, though, despite what the others surely thought. He wasn’t sure what it was, to be honest, but it burned. It choked. It rushed to his cheeks, painting them scarlet with heat. 

What in bloody hell was wrong with him? _Kings_. Do not. Kneel. And yet there he was, felled by the news that Dean Winchester still lived. 

Crowley hadn’t let himself hope, despite the number of near misses and resurrections already attributed to the man. This time was supposed to have been different. Dean’s luck had run out. _God_ had sent him to his death this time--a sacrificial lamb, the only defense they had against a cosmic force to rival the Big Guy Himself. There wasn’t supposed to be any coming back from this one, so Crowley hadn’t allowed himself to dwell. He had taken his grief and locked it away, buttressing the crypt with denial. He’d interred the corpse of his last remnant of human feeling--of personal attachment--in hopes it would shrivel to a husk and no longer pose a threat. 

Now it had burst from the grave, and Crowley’s horror at the phenomenon immobilized him, allowing it to shamble forth and rend him asunder. 

He grappled with it now, and the difficulty of the struggle was maddening. This strange fit may not have started as anger, but that was what it was quickly becoming.

_How dare he._

How _dare_ anyone or anything so endear itself to Crowley! Who had given Dean Winchester permission to take up residence in Crowley’s thoughts? What gave him the _bloody right_ to install himself in the structure of Crowley’s world in a way that the mere mention of his continued existence threatened to bring it down around Crowley? 

Perhaps his lackey had been mistaken, though. Perhaps it was still too soon to breathe this sigh of wretched relief. Crowley pulled out his phone. His finger hovered above the number still listed in his contacts, but he hesitated to allow it to descend. 

_No_. 

He was the King of Hell, not some lovesick puppy. If he called, he’d seem desperate. _Sentimental_. 

Crowley gripped his phone so tightly it threatened to crack, had to resist the urge to fling it toward the wall. 

“This is all your bloody fault!” he bitched to the ‘Not Moose’ illuminated on his screen. “If it weren’t for you blasted Winchesters, I’d still be happily heartless. A conscienceless bastard like I’ve always been. But no. As ever, you had to try to save the bloody world and muck things up in the process. _Things being **me** in this instance._ I didn’t used to... _want_. And certainly not the rubbish I seem to want now. Friends,” he sneered. 

Their respect. To feel... _wanted_.

And that was why Crowley could not call. Because Dean hadn’t. Hadn’t cared enough to let Crowley know he still lived. And why would he? The idea of Crowley’s death wouldn’t carve the same fetid hollow in Dean’s heart as Dean being ripped apart by the detonation of half a million souls had in Crowley’s. His absence wouldn’t drive the same icy spike through Dean’s psyche. The thought of his sacrifice wouldn’t similarly hobble Dean because it would not enter his mind. 

Dean didn’t think of Crowley. Not in friendly terms. Not at all unless he needed some service. Of course, he wouldn’t ring the demon up just to ease his mind. 

Crowley swallowed the bile that had crept up the back of his throat, and he tucked his phone into his breast pocket as he rose to his feet, albeit unsteadily. He wouldn’t make the call, but he would wait for it. They always needed him eventually.

That thought made him seethe. His neediness was too infuriating to acknowledge--as was the knowledge that he’d rush to the bastard’s side as soon as he summoned--and so Crowley would simply not think on it. Hell would need to be governed all the same in the meantime. 

But Crowley was acutely aware of the shape of his phone near his heart, as he knew he would be until it rang. 

Kings might not kneel, after all, but they did grant audiences.


End file.
